<BR>Hope u speak english Seymour
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<BR>It\'s Merde in Paris!
<BR>The French weren\'t drinking red wine, neither Bordeaux nor the new season\'s Beaujolais, but pints, like the rest of the crowd. Pints of larger, and maybe even Guinness.
<BR>They were all rugby fans but it was hard to tell one nationality from another . . . . at least until the French national anthem sounded. Then, all the French locked arms and joined in, boisterously enthusiastic.
<BR>The contest hadn\'t started yet, and they were cocky with confidence.
<BR>Most of the foreigners were Brits, except for a gang of Aussies whose colonial accents set them apart. Like me, they were there to see the FROGS get their noses bloodied.
<BR>My wife Katie had gone to the Stade de France to cover the match for a local photo agency. A French buddy was also at the stadium.
<BR>\"Tonight will decide who is not talking to the other tomorrow,\" he declared with Gallic pride.
<BR>Given its 9pm Saturday night start, I chose to watch the match at a cosy Scottish pub, not far from the River Seine, and a 15-minute walk from our Paris apartment.
<BR>Fortunately the streets are well lit, because they are littered with dog faeces. Morning and evening, hordes of dog owners walk their pets, which relieve themselves at leisure on the pavement and parked cars.
<BR>The French don\'t care about littering. Smokers, who think nothing of tossing burning cigarette butts onto the street, are astonished, if not outraged, at being admonished for it. An army of municipal street cleaners is employed to clean up their mess.
<BR>The pub was crowded; it was standing room only and all three television sets were tuned to the live broadcast from the Stade de France. By deft use of elbow and shoulder I scored a stool and choice spot at the bar, and ordered my beer. A moment later a head bobbed up in front of me.
<BR>\"Expecting an even match?\" this bloke enquired tentatively.
<BR>Every bar has them, those self-acclaimed experts and practitioners of bonhomie who cannot imagine for a moment that their prattle is anything short of scintillating discourse and that their company might be surplus to requirement.
<BR>\"No mate,\" I said, stifling a curse. \"The FROGS are in for a thrashing!\"
<BR>\"Ah! You\'d be a Kiwi then!\"
<BR>He steamed on about recent rugby contests but I ignored him, being more interested in monitoring the nearest television screen.
<BR>He soon got the hint and slouched off in a huff, only to collar some other poor bastard, a Frenchman as it happened. I could hear his opening salvo: \"Expecting an even match . . . .?\"
<BR>When the All Blacks performed their haka, the French supporters hooted.
<BR>\"Early days yet, mon!\" blurted a well-oiled Scot behind me. \"The All Blacks\'ll slaughter youse (expletive deleted)!\"
<BR>The game got under way.
<BR>After those two early penalties, the French supporters were gleeful. The Scotsman snorted with derision. The rest of us watched and waited . . . . and recharged our glasses.
<BR>The French are not big social drinkers, they don\'t go out of their way to get drunk. Two or three glasses is their limit, usually, and they manage their social affairs with haughty decorum.
<BR>Perhaps it was just as well. By halftime the tide had turned and the only French cries to be heard in the pub were those of dismay and despair. By the end of the match the French were silent. Well, mostly silent.
<BR>\"Merde!\" said one of them slouching at the bar. \"Merde! Merde! Merde!\"
<BR>\"Don\'t take it so badly,\" I said, by way of artful consolation. \"You had such a great start!\"
<BR>\"Please don\'t mock us. We are already so humiliated. Merde! You\'ll hear it all over France now! Merde!\"
<BR>And that was that. There were no fights, no violence, and the single smashed beer glass was the result of the nerd who\'d accosted me, jostling the barman clearing tables. He bridled in self-defence, otherwise at a loss for words, finally.
<BR>On the way home I watched a bloke put some cardboard in a doorway, which was his bed for the night.
<BR>The homeless and hopeless are not an unusual sight in Paris. His two dogs crapped in the street, and lay down beside him.
<BR>In the morning I telephoned my friend. I was in fine form – I had a 45-6 victory under my belt. My friend wasn\'t so perky.
<BR>\"Terence, is that you? Merde!\" he said. \"Merde!\"
<BR>And he hung up.
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